All to Play For (31 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Looking back from the twenty-first century I’m reminded of
Chariots of Fire
. We were like those muscular young men in their prime pounding along the beach in slow motion, full of innocent youthful ambition, forging through the wind and spray. It didn’t feel like a rat race at the time; rather a heroic pitting ourselves against one another to achieve our utmost. We had energy and resolve to spare, and we weren’t distracted by children and financial pressures like we are today. Now that young graduates have to start their working lives up to their eyes in debt they miss out on that glorious decade or so of working for love, not money. We’ve robbed them. As a parent, the one thing you want above all is to give your children a better life than you had yourself – or at least a life that isn’t any worse.

Jonathan and I were both struggling to make the pace as we developed our scripts, desperate to win our heat and move up to the next stage. I had successfully avoided him since the writers’ party, burying my embarrassment and regret at having effectively removed myself from his project. I was completely focussed on
Lover Boy
and determined to make my mark with it. I had total faith that it was going to be brilliant, as if letting doubt creep in would undermine it. I’d stayed in close contact with Jill, and we’d become good friends, I admired her life as a single parent and a writer. She had a successful career and Sam seemed a nice boy, if rather reserved – he didn’t chat when I was around, at any rate. From where I was standing Jill seemed to have the work-life balance sorted pretty well. In retrospect I realise that she must have been fairly reliant on her ex-husband financially, which must have been more of a strain than she let on.

At this point it was Nik Mason who was pulling ahead of the bunch, he was almost level with Chris in the metaphorical mile.
Bus Stops Here
promised a sea-change in the early evening schedules and this affected the Drama Department radically as we were pushed aside. With a plummeting demand for in-house drama it became impossible to keep all the staff, and a quiet purge began to take place. Offices were suddenly empty, as if thieves had broken in during the night and stripped out their inhabitants as well as their contents.

Jill was blissfully unaware of this as she finished the first draft of
Lover Boy
. Whenever she was in the flow of writing she lost all sense of herself as an individual and became caught up in a kind of bliss, as if dreaming but aware and in control, detached from daily life, but fully alive. She found it immensely fulfilling.

Finishing the last page, she leaned back and sighed with satisfaction. She clicked save and print, and went in the kitchen for her reward: a piece of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee. It was a great feeling, finishing a script, although it usually only lasted a few hours before the doubts and anxieties set in. Enjoy it while you can, she thought.

A key turned in the front door, and Sam slouched in with his father, who was carrying Sam’s overnight bag.

“Hello darling,” welcomed Jill. “What great timing. I’ve just finished. Had a good time?”

“Yeah,” said Sam.

“Give us a kiss, then.”

Sam gave her a peck on the cheek with poor grace. Jill tutted. “Coffee, Neil?”

“Yes, why not.”

Jill poured another cup and they sat down at the kitchen table, while Sam went and put the television on. Jill cut two slices out of the cake.

“How’s the selection procedure going?” she asked.

“The first lot turned me down. The second – well they did too, but it was a close contest. I’m up for another one next week though, which is a much better bet.”

“Where is it?”

“Birmingham.”

“Not too far away.”

“No. I really want to get this one. It has a Conservative majority of two thousand at the moment. I really think I could win it.”

“Good luck, then.”

“Thanks.”

“I suppose it’ll mean a pay rise?”

“Yep. I suppose you’ll be putting in for increased child expenses.”

“You suppose right.”

“Mind you, you can’t be short if you can afford to buy Sam Nike Airs.”

“You what? I thought you bought them.”

“He told me it was you! So where did he get them?”

“Don’t ask me.” Jill’s appetite for chocolate cake receded. She sighed heavily. “Has he talked to you about these new friends at all?”

Neil shook his head guiltily. “I didn’t want to push it, Jill. Sorry.”

“Let’s ask him now, then.”

“Do we have to?”

Jill shouted for Sam to come in, and he shouted back inaudibly.

“Leave it for now, Jill, it’s late. I’ll definitely talk to him next time.”

“Alright then. I’m pretty knackered myself.”

*

When I read Jill’s first draft of
Lover Boy
I was very pleased with it. It needed some work, but essentially the characters and dialogue sprang off the page and were immensely likeable and believable. I called her to say so, and arranged for her to come in and discuss it with me and Basil. I then settled down to work through it carefully, identifying where there was room for improvement and possible solutions. I had a suspicion that she might be too closely involved, there was a lack of suspense because Sharon and Luke were so nice.

Two days later I went to Basil’s office for our pre-meeting, to go over our notes before Jill arrived. I went along the corridor humming, feeling bright and cheerful, looking forward to hearing Basil’s thoughts which were bound to be valuable, and hoping he’d think my own points were astute. All being well, we were on course to get Episode Two commissioned.

Basil’s PA was on the phone arguing with someone about the mail. Since the service had recently been privatised, nearly all the long-standing posties who worked out of the post room in the bowels of Television Centre had been replaced. Those discreet men and women knew everybody in the building, and would re-direct mail promptly to anyone who moved office. As this happened to most of us several times a year, according to the demands of production, they were invaluable. The management flatly refused to recognise this and sold off the franchise to a private company which brought in new, uncommitted workers on much-reduced wages. Now the mail was slow and unreliable, and something important of Basil’s had disappeared completely. His PA didn’t seem to be getting anywhere with her enquiries. I went through to Basil’s office and found him looking unusually despondent.

“Sit down Rhiannon,” he said, like a doctor with serious news to impart. I wondered what had been lost.

“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” he said simply. “
Lover Boy
is no more. It’s been dropped.”

For a moment I couldn’t take it in. I hadn’t realised its existence was under threat at that particular time. “But they haven’t seen the script yet!”

“No, they don’t intend to. Chris told the editorial board yesterday that he’s chosen his serials for next year and he sees no point in continuing development on anything else. He sees that as a waste of money.”

“So that’s it? Just like that?” I couldn’t believe it.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

I just gawped at him like an idiot. He looked sympathetic and strained. I realised he probably had much bigger problems on his plate and I ought to get out of his hair, so I got a grip on myself.

“Okay, I understand. That’s life. What about Jill? She’ll be here in half an hour. Do you still want to meet?”

“There’s no need. You may as well break the news yourself.”

“No problem. Thanks Basil, for everything.” I smiled ruefully and left in what I hoped was a professional manner. In the corridor I passed Jonathan on his way in. We muttered hello to each other, then I slunk off to my office and closed the door behind me, grateful I didn’t have to share it as I sank to the carpet and had a little weep. Then I kicked myself for having put all my eggs into this one basket, which had just been flattened by a tank.

I went to Centre House Reception to meet Jill and take her to the canteen for coffee. Sitting on the foam-upholstered bench wondering how to break it to her I was struck by her pink-faced glow of happiness as she pushed open the glass door. I put on a neutral smile and greeted her with our customary double kiss, then we went out through the car park which was clogged with people standing around.

“Is there a fire drill?” asked Jill.

“No, they’ve banned smoking indoors.”

She chuckled and noticed that each person nursed a fag end, sucking on it with furtiveness, embarrassment or defensive boldness.

In the canteen I parked Jill at a corner table and went to fetch some coffees, then sat down and went through the usual pleasantries before breaking the real subject as gently as I could.

“The fact is,” I explained. “There’s no room for it now. The controller’s decided he doesn’t want it after all. The slot’s been filled.”

Jill looked horrified and bewildered. “But I’ve got a contract! Don’t they like the script? Can’t I rewrite it?”

“No-one else has read it, Jill. It’s really good, so don’t imagine it’s got anything to do with the quality of your work, it hasn’t. Basil will sign the acceptance so you’ll get all your money on Episode One, but there’s no point doing any further work on it. I’m so sorry.”

Jill stared at her coffee and shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Just like that!”

“Yeah.”

“Did you put up a fight?”

I wasn’t expecting that, and was taken aback. “I didn’t get the opportunity.” She didn’t look convinced. “They made the decision and passed it down the line. That’s how it works these days.”

Jill frowned, trying to make sense of it. “But what about these big meetings, and lobbying, and development for new slots? Didn’t you say that’s the new way? I thought we were on track… ”

“I know. So did I. Believe me, I’m more upset than you are.” Jill’s eyebrows flickered up and down again as she failed to meet my eyes, and I knew she thought I was pretending. It was horrible. I was just being professional, after all, I was a BBC employee, not a freelance, and as such I couldn’t slag off the management, especially to an outsider on the premises. She sighed heavily and leaned back.

“The worst of it is I turned down a
Casualty
a few weeks ago, so now I’m out of work altogether.”

“Maybe you can take
Lover Boy
to ITV? Talk to your agent about it.” I said this altruistically, it would be a big wrench to give it up, but Jill took my words differently and her guard went up again.

“Is that why it was rejected? Too downmarket? Too sensational?” She looked at me sharply.

“No I told you, no-one read it.”

“Perhaps they didn’t need to.”

I began to feel Jill was suggesting that I’d scuppered the project myself, and I resented it. I considered reminding her that it was my idea in the first place, and me that got her the commission, but I couldn’t, so I said nothing. Jill probably took this the wrong way too, since she stood up to leave. She shook my hand – a bad sign – and said, “Oh well, thanks anyway. See you around.” She left briskly, while I sat there like a lemon.

I soon began to feel more annoyed than sad. She hadn’t given a moment’s thought to my side of it, or my feelings. Writers! They take people like me for granted. They think we’re part of the establishment, with big salaries, pensions, psychic stability. They’re egotists. Not all, obviously, but nearly all. Self-oriented. Perhaps they have to be, or they couldn’t do what they do. They’re deeply insecure and often neurotic, longing to be adored, and terrified of the limelight. They look for conspiracy and read between the lines, even when the truth is plain and simple. There wasn’t much I could do, I wasn’t responsible for Jill’s feelings, and I needed to think about my own employment prospects. It was a real shame, but I had a feeling I would never be close to Jill again – and as of today, I didn’t really mind.

Sam was already in by the time Jill returned, doing homework in his room. She put her head round his door.

“Hi Sam. You okay?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t turn around. Feeling the need for human contact she approached him at his desk and put her hands on his shoulders, reading his book.

“Is that maths?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t look anything like the maths I used to do. It’s lucky you don’t need me to help you.”

Sam sighed. He seemed tense. Suddenly she realised why. She gasped.

“You’ve had your ear pierced!” A tiny gold stud sat in his right ear lobe.

“How could you do it Luke?”

Sam spun round. “Luke?! Who’s
Luke
?” he glowered at her accusingly. She hesitated, caught between anger and disappointment in Sam, and remorse for her mistake. She felt weak. She wasn’t up to a confrontation right now. She sat down on the bed.

“Sorry – he’s a boy I’ve been writing about.”

“Is he me?”

“No. He’s a bit like you in some ways – but he’s older, wears a ponytail. He wants to be a potter.” She smiled faintly.

“You love him more than you love me.”

“Don’t be silly, how could I? He isn’t even real!”

“You do, because you think he’s perfect. I can see you do. And I’m not.”

Sam got up and left the room. Jill remained on his bed, stunned. She heard him open the front door.

“I’m going out. I’ll be back later.”

The door slammed.

Jill made herself a cup of tea and took a chair out onto the balcony. She sat watching the traffic and the kids hanging out on street corners, wondering if Sam was one of them. She mentally listed her failures: marriage, work, motherhood – a disaster in every camp. Where had it all gone wrong? Maybe Sam had a point. Did she prefer Luke to him, in her heart of hearts? Had she used him as a substitute for her imperfect son? She went back in, lay down on the sofa and cried herself to sleep.

“Here you are, mum.”

Jill roused herself painfully. “What?”

“I made you a sandwich.”

She rubbed her eyes and saw a tray bearing a cheese sandwich garnished with a tomato cut in half, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of tea. Sam put it down on the coffee table.